1944
by Kikasu Utagoe
Summary: It's 1944, and the Allies are advancing into Italy and Germany. Feliciano is captured by France! Stuttgart is under siege! Will Germany arrive on time to save his Italian friend, or will Francis, Alfred and Arthur win? And could little Poland change the course of war? Rated M for language, gore, France's sadism, fluff and slash - Germany/Italy, Spain/Romano, US/UK.
1. captured

_1944._

He was standing all alone in a long, shallow, mud-drenched trench in Collepietra, a small village a few miles from Bolzano. Thunder rumbled a few miles away and he had to hold his breath to keep himself from trembling convulsively, thus making his Carcano bolt-action rifle rattle relentlessly against the black crate he was balancing his weapon and elbows on. He pushed his messy, sweaty hair from his eyes and swallowed hard, overcome with the realization that he's the only one there. It's not that there were reinforcements in the nearest trench or half-bombed building, no. He was simply the last man standing, the most unlikely to survive, and yet, seemingly the luckiest one of the soldiers.

"I can't do this," he whispered to himself, his heart thumping in his chest as if were trying to ram its way out of his ribcage. He clumsily pulled up the pair of binoculars suspended on a thin cord from his neck and peeked around in a 180 degrees angle, but couldn't see very far in the pitch darkness. Just as he slumped slightly, letting his head rest on the wooden crate, he heard a twig snap behind him.

"Who is there!" He rotated in the direction of the sound, aiming with his Carcano, poking at the darkness with the attached bayonet. Silence.

He cleared his throat, "Wh-who's there!". Silence again. Then he heard footsteps behind him but before he could do anything –

.

* * *

.

"Where am I?" he instinctively asked as he floated back into consciousness, his eyes adjusting to the bright neon light surrounding him. His voice bounced off the walls and after a few seconds he could see that he was, in fact, in an empty, concrete room with bare floors and walls and no windows – presumably underground. His arms felt heavy and as he tried to stretch he realized he was handcuffed and bound, each limb captured and strapped to different points on the ceiling and floor, leaving him to dangle there like a ragdoll with his arms outstretched uncomfortably.

He heard a heavy door unlock and then hinges squeaking mercilessly, and then heavy footsteps on the concrete floor. He turned his head and whimpered at the sight.

In walked France, holding a small leather suitcase, dressed in his uniform – khaki pants and shirt – both tucked in smartly – and a small, blue beret sitting snugly on the Frenchman's long, flowing blond hair.

The military boots kept trodding along the floor until the soldier had walked a full circle around him and now stood facing him, eyeing him with an evil smirk on his face.

"Please, no – "

Francis started laughing maniacally for a prolonged time, the entire concrete room resonating with the raucous sound as he found pleasure in the significantly smaller and shorter man's misery. Then he stopped laughing as abruptly as he had begun, and, with a rapid movement of his long arm he slapped the brown-haired captive's face so hard all the chains shook and the room was filled with an echoing clap. The blond man then grabbed the brunet's face with one of his white-gloved hands and inspected it closely, listening to his frantic breathing. He then grabbed the messy brown hair and tossed his whole head aside again, letting go and focusing on opening the small leather suitcase.

France snapped open the two golden latches and, to the smaller man's horror, revealed two rows of a dozen utensils. Sharp, blunt and spiky utensils. Things to cause pain and suffering with.

The two gloved hands ran over the contents of the suitcase and then maliciously hovered over an exquisite butterfly knife. They plucked the weapon from the suitcase and soon the Frenchman was right by the captive's side again, holding the opened knife against his chest.

"Let the games begin, _oui_?" Francis asked, smirking, and cut into the shorter man's uniform, cutting through the coarse, sweat-soaked material and pushing slightly harder to have the blade graze against the man's soft skin. The chains rattled as the captured man tried to writhe away from the stinging sensation, but that merely angered the Frenchman who grabbed the two halves of fabric and tore them away from one another, exposing the other's torso.

"Let us start with calling you what you really are, hm?" France pressed the specially sharpened knife against the man's skin again, but this time cutting through it, deeper and deeper, and hot, red blood trickled down the captive's torso, leaving a dripping dark-vermilion trail after the intricate design the torturer was making. The smaller man was in excruciating pain and cried out in agony, wriggling around in the chains, only making it worse as the Frenchman cut deeper than he even intended a few times.

Finally, Francis retracted the blade and marveled at his own work, wiping one of the blood drips, smearing it across the now-crying man's chest. The word "_DISGRACE_" was written in the crimson color of red across the captive's entire slim torso.

He whimpered as the blood began dripping lower and lower, swimming across his abdomen and then slowly starting to stain his sage-green pants. He thought, "nothing can be worse than this," as he gritted his teeth and cried in pain and exasperation at the burning spreading across his entire chest. Just then, France was right back on him, this time doing something twice as bad, something as horrendously atrocious as the man's very worst nightmares.

France laughed barbarically and said, "Let's get those bloodstained pants off, _petite pute_."

"LUDWIIIIIIIIIIIIIG!"


	2. woken

He woke with a start, and immediately sat upright in his military field bed. He got up swiftly, threw on his uniform's jacket, put on his cap and grabbed his custom Luger P08 from the chair which stood by his bed at all times. Without second thought, he rushed into the rainstorm outside his tent, sprinting as fast as he could straight into the night.

Unlike any other point in his life, he wasn't thinking rationally at that moment. Maybe he wasn't even thinking at all. He could've been asking himself a million questions – what? Where? Why? – but instead, he ran forward at a neck-snapping pace.

The cry he had heard echoed in his head, and though he couldn't even recall exactly what it had screamed, his legs were powered by the terrifying realization that there could only be one voice hollering like that – Italy's.

.

* * *

.

Despite his undeniably inhuman stamina and physique, Germany was getting quite tired of his ceaseless sprint. His emotional rage was ending, the adrenaline in his veins had been absorbed. He was running through a rainstorm in the middle of the night and the cold water droplets were hacking away at his face from an angle, bringing his mind into a state of sobriety.

"I heard Feliciano's voice," he thought, "I am running to save him because that useless lump of carbon and proteins has gotten itself into trouble. _Nicht schon wieder_…"

He kept running over the wet soil, but snapped open the compass he kept in his chest pocket. His calculating mind sprang into action as he thought – Italy was meant to be holding up his last line of trench defenses before Bolzano, a few miles north of the city, in fact. He had presumably left his camp auxiliary camp in Innsbruck and had been running non-stop for an hour at an approximate of 24 km/h. After a few quick arithmetic equations he had concluded that he should be at the Italian's trenchline in less than a minute.

His feet felt heavier and heavier as he stepped off the puddle-filled dirt road and went crashing through the woods like a startled bear, only to fall, with a loud splash, straight into a long ditch. It was the Italian trench of course, with knee-high mud at the bottom and corpses lying everywhere. But the bodies were all cold and in the first stage of decomposition, and Germany concluded that none of them were Feliciano. He waded down the trench, his tall, raven-black officer boots now an ugly umber color as they were submerged in the cold, muddy concoction completely. At one point, his shoe kicked against something hard – a tree root, perhaps? – which, after an uncomfortable underwater plunge with Ludwig's right hand turned out to be, in fact, a discarded Carcano rifle. He wiped the weapon with his one clean sleeve and examined the weapon. There were no bodies in the particular section of the trench, and a Carcano like this wouldn't just be left behind if anyone was retreating. The soldier who this gun belonged to must have been taken by surprise – but by what?

Just then, Germany's strong fingers ran over a little pattern in the cold steel – two words engraved in the metal: _Feliciano Vargas_. So it was him – his dear little helpless friend – who got surprised by some overpowering force? Ludwig eyebrows came together as he scowled at the thoughts flooding his head. Feliciano in graver danger than he even thought. Maybe attacked by some wild animals, maybe something worse. Germany heaved himself up over the top of the trench and, being an excellent soldier and hunter alike, found a trail of footsteps left in the soggy soil of the rain-soaked forest. The footsteps were a soldier's shoes – in fact, he was even able to tell they were French officer shoes. But they seemed to leave a very strong print in the forest floor, meaning either the soldier was morbidly obese or – or he was carrying someone.

_Feliciano_.

Germany followed the tracks again, powered again by his immense rage. "That _hurensohn_, who the fuck does he think he is? And what is that _dreckige hure_ doing to Feli!" He stormed through the woods, and soon reached a small abandoned fort outside of Bolzano. Of course, what location could be better than an underground bunker?

He approached the gate carefully. From his estimates, there were six French soldiers inside the walls, and God knows how many underground. Two were standing guard by the entrance into the fort's bunker, three were playing cards and one was sitting by the large steel gate. Germany began climbing the half-bombed, crumbling brick walls and almost slipped, as the bricks were soft and practically dissolving in the rain. Finally, he reached the top of the wall and crawled towards the main gate.

He fell onto the French soldier like thunder from the sky, knocking him out with the force of his shoe against his skull. He may have even been dead on the spot. He flipped the body over and took the French F1 grenade with a percussion fuse. Without pause he tugged off the fuse-pin, waited a few seconds and then skillfully flung the explosive at the group of soldiers playing cards.

"_C'est quoi?_" one of them asked, surprised by the soft splash of something into a puddle at his feet, but before any of them reacted, an ear-splitting explosion occurred and the sound bounced off the walls as all three soldiers went up in flames. The two bunker guards began shooting blindly into the darkness, but Ludwig was hiding behind an old Italian truck that stood parked at the side of the fort. He pulled his P08 Luger from its snug holster, rolled out from behind the car and took two shots – all he needed – and the two soldiers fell to the ground in a mixed puddle of their own blood and mud. He dashed past their bodies, kicked open the thick steel door and entered the narrow corridor descending sharply downwards, illuminated only by a few bare light bulbs suspended from the concrete ceiling like glowing hanged men.


	3. found

France was breathing deeply, stripped down to nothing but his pants. Before him stood a bloody, bruised and completely naked Italian whose facial features were almost invisible due to a large cut above his brows. He was shaking convulsively from all the pain and suffering he was barely enduring. The Frenchman, on the other hand, was panting with pleasure and pulling himself close to the tortured man.

"You look beautiful, _mon cher_," he whispered into his ear and then licked the Italian's earlobe slowly while the latter cringed away in disgust and grunted with displeasure.

"_Brutto figlio di puttana bastardo_!" The Italian said coarsely, his throat too dry to yell from all the hollering in pain.

"Ooh, that's not very nice, _petit cule_."

"_Vai all'inferno_, you stupid piece of shit. What have I ever – "

The Frenchman interrupted him, "Nothing, _disgrâce_, I just like watching you suffer." He walked around his victim and stopped behind him, his heavy breath on the Italian's neck. "Now I'm gonna put my – "

Just then, a loud explosion boomed on the surface, much louder than thunder – somebody is here to rescue me, Italy thought. Could it be Germany?

"_Putain_! That sauerkraut-eating asshole is on his way to save you, after all! Well, he'll have a nice surprise waiting for him…" The Frenchman started laughing loudly and approached his suitcase full of weaponry. He selected a long dagger he had used to stab at Italy's knees and elbows to cause unbelievable suffering.

Well, he thought, the amount of suffering is about to increase, then.

.

* * *

.

Two soldiers, hearing what had happened on the surface, were waiting for Ludwig in the first of two underground rooms. He shot one of them immediately, but the other was waiting for him and hit his arm with the butt of his American-made Lee Enfield rifle. Germany winced in pain but retaliated immediately, punching the soldier with a left uppercut and finishing the job by kneeing him in the stomach. He then stomped on the soldier's head as he lay unconscious on the ground, now never to wake up again.

Germany kicked open a few doors only to find an ammunition store, a wine cellar and a lavatory. However, there was one room left that he hadn't checked – a seemingly inconspicuous maintenance room that, upon barging into, turned out to be a make-shift torture chamber and prison cell.

The sight took his breath away – his best friend and more, the one he always protected and practically babysat – was now a battered, naked, bloody, crimson-colored, chained mess. And facing the door stood France, wearing pants only, with his hands behind his back.

"Feli!" Ludwig yelled upon seeing the Italian. He then turned towards the torturer and hollered, "You – you monster!" With shaking hands, he shot his Luger twice, hitting the Frenchman's left shoulder once and missing the other time as Francis ducked to the right.

"Don't shoot," the Frenchman said calmly, although cringing in pain at the bullet in his arm. He outstretched his hidden, dagger-wielding hand, pressing the sharp knife against Feliciano's throat, "don't shoot or I'll kill him."

Ludwig lowered the gun and then Francis added, "Drop it and kick it here." The German reluctantly let go of his custom Luger and then kicked it across the floor. "Now hands above your head."

"You love this guy, don't you?" France smirked, picking up the pistol and weighing it in his hand. "And you love this gun too… 'T would be a shame if you got killed with it." He grinned evilly and pointed the pistol at the German's face.

"Ludi, no!" the Italian roared as he saw, with the corner of his eye, what was happening behind him.

"_Brûle en enfer, branleur_!" France said, and pulled the trigger.

The Luger P08 merely clicked. Ludwig had shot the last two bullets.

The German used the Frenchman's confusion to charge at him and headbutt him in the stomach. He then punched his face several times, delivering each blow with the crushing power of his rage. But Francis was still holding the dagger with his impaired, shot arm. It may have been limp with pain, but he was still able to swing the blade back and drive it straight into the German's fist, blocking one of his punches. Ludwig caught the dagger with his bare hand and, despite the fact that it drove into his skin mercilessly and erupted with a firework of blood, he intercepted it and, after wresting himself free, stabbed it straight through the Frenchman's heart, ending his miserable existence.

The German's head was spinning but he went straight for the Italian. He chopped the steel chains with the sharp dagger and then discarded the disgusting tool forever. He caught Feliciano as his limp body fell straight for the floor, powerless.

"Ludi," he whispered, "you came for me…"

"Of course, _dummkopf_. Always."

Germany picked up the smaller one's body, bridal style, and carried it out of the fort. Every move sent waves of pain through his body and he could tell that each step he took also hurt the bruised, cut and bone-crushed Italian he was holding in his weakened arms, as he whimpered at the German's slightest move. They moved slowly through the underground maze, up the narrow concrete staircase and through the now-truly-abandoned brick fortress. The two moved slowly through the rainstorm outside, the Italian's eyes full of blood and tears as the cold rain stung his burning wounds. Ludwig battled the pain and fatigue, trudging through the woods, all odds against him.

They had walked for an hour through the swampy forest before any form of Bolzano's crumbling apartment buildings could be seen. Germany's vision was blurry, and all he could see was black spots. He knew he couldn't carry on for much longer. Finally, he turned around so that he would absorb all of the impact, and collapsed back-first onto the empty paved street.

"Ludi," a barely audible whisper that blended in with the hiss of rainfall, "Ludi?"

"_Ja_?"

"I'm still naked," the Italian smiled and rolled from atop the German's body onto the stones below. He cried with pain at the contact of his bleeding wounds with the muddy pavement.

Ludwig smiled back, tears streaming down his prominent cheeks, and scooped up the Italian's bruised face with his badly bleeding hand, "_Ich liebe dich_, Feli." He said and kissed him slowly.

"The feeling is mutual," Feliciano half-whispered and half-mouthed, and then drifted off into unconsciousness beside him.


	4. dead?

The sun tends to rise early in August, and so it did that day. With the first glow of dawn, two boys, despite the omnipresent destruction, hurried out from their underground burrows called home and dashed through the streets, chasing the last bats which fleed from the first rays of sunlight. They clasped their hands together, index fingers outstretched and yelled "pew-pew!" at each other as they pretended to be brave soldiers fighting for independence of the ghost town. They crossed the bridge excitedly, and then stopped dead. Two bodies lay a few buildings away from them. The boys dropped to the ground, rolled over to hide behind a pile of rubble and whispered to each other.

"Eey, Salvatore," a dark boy with sad, brown eyes, nudged the other, "you-a think they are alive?"

The other boy, with messy brown curls and an inextinguishable smile, slowly peered from behind the bricks they hid behind, "They aren't moving. I guess they're dead."

"They weren't here yesterday, Salvatore."

The boy scratched his head as they both observed the bodies, ready to flee if they as much as moved a finger. "Let's see, then, Felippe. They're not moving, they won't hurt us. One of them even looks quite Italian."

The black-haired boy shook his head and said, "Fine, but you go first."

They inched towards the lump of skin and bones, all the time careful not to make a single sound. Salvatore reached them first and noticed how badly injured they both were. His expression changed immediately, and feeling a sense of duty he kneeled by the mauled-up, naked Italian and had his ear hover above the man's nose.

"He's – he's breathing!" he exclaimed loudly, and stood up quickly, "we have to get _Papa_, maybe they can both be saved!"

Felippe nodded and confirmed, "Let's go. Say, the other guy, is he a German?"

"Of course," Salvatore replied without any thought, "who else would've stuck with an Italian through that sort of hell?"

They ran off, their feet pattering against the cobblestoned streets of Bolzano.

.

* * *

.

I was on a beach, lying on my back, looking at a large, brass gate while the sea tides lapped against my toes. I stretched out my hand towards the sky, and the tips of my fingers touched the metal bars.

Just then, some wild animals – I guess – started hauling my body down the beach, across the sand. It felt empty, there was no pain. But soon the gate was a distance away, and then it was out of reach completely.

.

"_People fear death even more than pain. It's strange that they fear death. Life hurts a lot more than death. At the point of death, the pain is over. Yeah, I guess it is a friend..."_


	5. some scars never heal

**_Hello everyone, this here chapter will be a little longer than the previous ones. _**

**_There will be slash/smut, so if you don't like it (and are still somehow reading this) please leave before you are disturbed :) _**

_._

_._

* * *

His eyes fluttered open. Was he dead? It certainly seemed probable as he was lying immobile in some large, brightly illuminated space. It took several minutes for his eyes to fully adjust to the bright Italian sunlight pouring in through the windows after being shut for such a long time. So he was alive after all, and in a white-washed room of some apartment.

The Italian wondered about what had happened when he was out while twitching his fingers and toes to find them fully mobile and functioning. He started moving his whole arm, pressing lightly on parts of his body he remembered to be cut open or scratched of smashed – most were now bruises or pink scabs. Feliciano then rested the arm on his bare chest – for he was dressed only in a pair of burlap shorts – only to find, to his horror, that the dreadful inscription the Frenchman bore into his flesh was still there.

"DISGRACE, DISGRACE," an echoing hiss wormed its way into the Italian's ear to the point where he pulled the white pillow from underneath his head and buried his face in it, hoping to block out the voice.

"Italy."

"GO AWAY, YOU NIGHTMARE!" The Italian screamed a traumatized yell and sat up, panting, covering his face with his hands protectively.

"Italy – " a warm, familiar voice instantly made all fears dissolve.

"_Dio mio_! Ludi, I didn't know it was you! I didn't hear you come in!" Feliciano noticed the tall, blond German standing next to his bed in his now-washed uniform, a bandage over his right hand. The Italian smiled and, with a painful stretch, he grabbed the German's good hand and pulled him closer. Ludwig sat on the foldable bed and just remained still on the squeaky springs, while holding Italy's hand and looking deep into his eyes.

"_Cosa_? Is there something on my face?" Italy cocked his head to the side as he tried to find a reason for the blond man's stare.

Ludwig blushed wildly and his blue eyes dropped, "_Nein_, it's just… You can't even imagine how happy I am to see you like this – alive again, after a whole week," he smiled and looked into the other's eyes – fascinating kaleidoscopes of hazel, maroon and chestnut, "the last time I held you, Feli, I thought I had lost you."

"You won't get rid of me that easily," the Italian grinned and cupped the German's broad jaw in one hand, drawing it closer to him, and finally placing his soft lips on Ludwig's, letting them stay in the lip-lock for a few seconds.

Germany pulled away slightly, his face flushed scarlet, and he started blurting, "F-Feli, do you r-remember everything that happened until the moment you went unconscious?"

The Italian placed his left hand on Ludwig's hip and ran his right hand through the German's blond, evenly combed-back hair. "No. Although…" he hesitated for a moment, "I do remember dreaming of something. I dreamt you said you loved me!" Feliciano waved his hand dismissively, as if chasing away the silly thought.

Ludwig sighed, went even redder and whispered, "It actually happened."

Italy looked at him with mouth wide open for a few seconds, after which he slowly raised and eyebrow and smirked mischievously. "That's great, because – "

" – the feeling is mutual," they said at the same time, and gazed at each other in silence. Without losing the scallywag smirk, Feliciano crawled out from under the white hospital sheets completely and, before the German could react, he pounced on top of him, pushing the top half of his tall body so it lay across the hospital bed. Italy's lips locked with Germany's and then the Italian pushed the German's coarse lips open using his warm tongue. Ludwig soon returned the kiss and their tongues interlocked with one another, as both of them pushed a little, exploring the other's mouth. The mingle of hot saliva made the German feel like there were surges of electricity zapping by in cycles between his chest and lower abdomen. While still occupied with the passionate kiss, Feliciano began unbuttoning Ludwig's clean uniform and, with a short pause to remove the coat completely, the brunette Italian found himself on top of the German, their naked torsos colliding against each other, their lips locking again.

Germany broke the kiss, panting for air, and Italy took advantage of the situation and planted a series of hot kisses along Ludwig's neck and muscular chest. While looking the German in the eye, he outstretched his warm tongue and gave the blond man's nipple a light lick. Ludwig shuddered and softly moaned with pleasure, his strong hands clutching onto the Italian's back as he continued swirling his tongue around the nipple, and then softly sucking on his muscular chest. After several repetitions he paused, and then licked his way back up to the German's lips.

Ludwig returned the kiss, which had now lost all of its innocence and was a rough collision of tongues and teeth. The German had to fight his primal urges to push the Italian back softly, until they were both sitting upright again. Their hot breathing resonated in their rising and collapsing chests, and the blond one, with his strong arms, easily picked up the curly-haired guy and moved him so that he was lying straight on the bed, his head resting comfortably on the goose-feather pillow. The German then crawled up onto the Italian and slowly, teasingly, rubbed Feliciano's obviously tent-shaped shorts.

"Ludi," the Italian moaned his name as he continued creating friction with his strong hands. He met Italy's eyes and, after smiling at the two round, umber masterpieces, he smirked slightly and pulled Feliciano's shorts off with one firm tug.

Ludwig marveled at the sight before him as if it were the first time he'd ever seen it. His powerful hands began gently stroking the Italian's wet member, sending waves of pleasure through Feliciano's body, making him arch his back and dig his fingers into the bed's coarse, white sheets. The German moved even closer to the member, and the Italian could now feel his hot breathing on it. Ludwig then descended to suck an area of Italy's abdomen right above his member, and the curly-haired man gasped, eyes closed, as Ludwig left behind a throbbing, red mark.

Then, the German did what Feliciano's whole body had been tremoring to feel – his mouth engulfed the Italian's rock-hard member and the flood of warmth surrounding it made him lose his senses, groan wildly and thrust against the inside of Ludwig's cheek, begging for more. But the German went teasingly slow, making Feliciano moan his name impatiently and repeatedly. With a flash of brilliant, electric blue, the German looked right in the Italian's eyes and then, with a smirk, reached out with his long arm and twirled his fingers around the mysterious, brown little curl amongst the Italian's messy, chestnut hair.

"LUDI!" he gasped out loud, hips bucking wildly, the hospital bed's springs squeaking menacingly with every movement. The blond retracted his wet, crimson lips from Feliciano's member and Italy took advantage of the moment, pushing Ludwig onto his back with a strong kick. The German was taken aback completely as Feliciano yanked off his officer boots, tossed them aside, and then began tugging his khaki pants off. Germany lifted his legs into the air to make the job easier, and without a second of pause, Feliciano's lips were upon the German's equally rock-hard member. The feeling of hot saliva and the Italian's nimble tongue swirling around the head of his cock made Ludwig lose his senses, as his eyes rolled back and he moaned loudly. One of his strong hands dug into the sheets, wrinkling them, and he ran the other one through the Italian's messy hair, tussling it and tugging on it slightly – one of his favorite things to do. Feliciano's agile mouth kept working on his member, though, and soon the German's hips were racing up and down, and deep moans were escaping from Ludwig's throat.

"Feli, faster, please," Ludwig panted between deep breaths, but the Italian just slowed down, teasingly. With a desperate frown, Ludwig found the Italian's mysterious erogenous curly bit of hair and pulled it harshly.

A mixture of an arctic chill rising from deep within his chest, and a pool of molten lava forming in his loins ran through Feliciano's body as he staggered, and, with a series of mind-blowing eruptions of pure pleasure, reached his climax just over the German's member. Ludwig whimpered with pleasure as the hot, heavenly drops of bliss swum down his cock, and he wasted no time. He positioned himself to be behind Feliciano who was still breathing heavily on all fours with his back arched.

"F-Feli, can I – "

The Italian turned his head to face him, and with the gleam of two dazzling, chocolate eyes, said "Ludi. I want you. Now."

The German rested both hands on the smooth, Italian ass before him, and with his two thumbs began working the hole before him, making sure his partner was ready for impact. After some probing, he located Feliciano's prostate and stimulated it with his fingers. Italy moaned deeply and Ludwig knew he was ready.

His throbbing, rock-hard member slid into the hole fully, and both of them began groaning and grunting loudly with each movement and bed-spring squeaking. Although the two were undeniably floating in ecstasy, Ludwig was the one on the verge of cumming and was fully aware that he couldn't last much longer. He thrust into the moaning Italian a few more times and he knew it was over – like a rumbling, exploding volcano he quivered violently with waves of pleasure, and then erupted while penetrating Feliciano's hole.

The Italian collapsed onto the sweaty, white sheets and soon the German's heavy body plopped down right beside him. Ludwig, still blushing wildly, began stroking the Italian's face with the back of his powerful hand. Feliciano occupied himself with tracing his delicate fingers along Ludwig's powerful pectoral muscles, while looking at the way the sunshine made those beautiful blonde threads gleam.

After several minutes of the post-bliss tranquility, Italy broke the comfortable silence, and said in a small voice "I wish I could forget what happened, Ludi. Close my eyes, and not remember any of those dreadful things, and forget that excruciating pain. It hurts when I think about it... France was right… I am, and always will be a disgrace."

Ludwig's eyebrows creased and he said, in his deep voice, "Italy, there are a thousand words I could use to describe you, you know? But _disgrace_? Not in a million years." He then smiled warmly and traced the letter-shaped scabs on Italy's torso.

"But these scars, Ludwig, they are horrible."

"They will heal," the German replied, calmly, "and the memories will fade, _meine Liebe_."

"But… you don't mind the scars, do you?"

Ludwig smiled his widest smile, the one only Italy could bring about, and said, "Does it look like I do?"

Italy sighed a reassured, Italian "veeee" and inched closer to Germany, their noses touching.

* * *

.

**_._**

**_I was thinking of ending the story here, but if you guys want moar I have a few ideas in store for further chapters. But if nobody's reading these, I don't see much of a point ;) _**

**_So let me know if you want a continuation!_**


	6. farewells and visitors

**_Hey guys, long and slightly fluffy chapter upcoming. I decided to continue the story due to your interest (thank you for all the comments and favorites!) Last week was finals, so I didn't get to write anything, but I'll be catching up this weekend and next week. Hope you enjoy! :)_**

.

* * *

.

"So you're really leaving?" the Italian asked again, in disbelief, as red Bolognese sauce dripped to the oak floor from the wooden ladle he was still holding, suspended in mid-air.

"I'm afraid so, _meine Liebe_." Germany replied after chewing his last forkful of the delicious, basil-and-tomato-flavored spaghetti. He wiped the corners of his frowning mouth with a handkerchief politely, and stood up, already putting on his khaki coat with new, chrome buttons. "The French problem has been dealt with," he added curtly, painfully remembering the experience, "however, British troops are on the move, Feli. Word has it they have gone as far into my country as Stuttgart – which is unacceptable, of course. Austria will be helping me, but it will still be difficult to hold our positions – the English are advancing through dense woodland and thus have the cover of – "

"Fine," Feliciano sighed, and dropped his gaze to the floor, folding his arms over his apron. Ludwig approached him, military boots thudding against the wooden floorboards of the kitchen in Florence. While still buttoning his coat, he bent his head down slightly, until his forehead was pressing against the Italian's, and he could hear him breathing.

"I'll be back as soon as I can, Feliciano," whispered the German softly, caressing Italy's cheeks softly with his now-gloved hands. "I promise. Do you know why, _mein Herzchen_?"

"Why?" the Italian's facial expression changed from furious to curious, and he lifted his gaze so that he was now looking at the German with a sparkle in his eye.

Ludwig smiled smugly and, blushing slightly, said, "Because I can't live without you."

"Awwww," Feliciano grinned from ear to ear and pulled the German towards him, wrapping his arms around him tightly and squeezing him so hard Germany had to pull away for air. But he soon returned the hug, scooping his arms underneath the Italian's, and slamming his entire muscular body into Feliciano's delicate frame. The warmth of Italy's body seemed to seep right into him, heating him with new desires – the desire the win the war for him, the desire to be back here, in his cute little cottage in Florence, and the desire to –

Suddenly, his imagination took him on a short, but intensive rollercoaster ride. An amalgamation of flashbacks and potential flashforwards flooded his head, filling his mind with images of his and Feliciano's naked bodies colliding, the Italian panting loudly as he planted kisses all over his perfect, flat stomach, just below his pokey ribcage –

"Oh," said Feliciano with a giggle as his voice pulled Ludwig out of his pleasant reverie and the German realized he was breathing heavily and there was a questionable bulge in his coarse military trousers. The Italian kept giggling as his small, right hand descended down the German's muscular front and settled on the said bulge, rubbing it teasingly.

"F-Feli," Ludwig barely articulated his words, and his cheeks appeared to be radiating a crimson aura as he flushed, embarrassed, "as m-much as I would love to, I cannot." He pulled away from the Italian whose expression changed from that of playful euphoria to the glum disappointment from a few minutes back. "As much as it hurts me, I must go," he added, and put on his black cap. Tipping the rim downwards and back up, like a true gentleman, he saluted the Italian and strode off to the chestnut door which stood slightly ajar, letting light and fresh air into the house. As the German crossed the threshold, Italy ran up to him, barefoot across the wooden floor, and grabbed his large, clenched hand.

Feliciano pried open Ludwig's fingers and placed something small and white in the large palm before him, saying, "Take it."

"What is this?"

"It's a tissue. You know, like the _caballero_'s used to get from their _amante_."

Ludwig stared at the slightly moist, white square before him. "Feli…. Those were handkerchiefs. Not tissues."

"Take it or leave it!" Italy stomped his left foot madly.

Germany smiled and folded the tissue in four, and slid it into the chest pocket of his uniform. Then, without a word, he was off.

.

.

* * *

.

.

Feliciano was not living through days and nights – he was merely painfully enduring time, his days divided into "troubled sleep time" and "worrisome pastamongering and consumption". At times, he would even combine the two and eat bowls of spaghetti in bed while worrying. There was no time during the day that his radio transmitter would not be on, tuned into both Italian and German stations, as Italy tried to scrap together some information on where Ludwig was and how he was doing.

He had no idea how many days had passed since Germany had left the threshold of his house, because whenever he tried to estimate the time it always seemed between one to two eternities. The sole black-and-white photograph of Ludwig that he owned had a thick white stripe on the right side where his thumb held the photo and rubbed it compulsively. In fact, Feliciano felt absolutely useless and worthless, like he wasn't even very human anymore, because he simply could not find anything to occupy himself with when his German wasn't there with him.

Cats began flooding the Italian's house slowly, at first a few tabbys licking the leftover sauce from the dirty dishes and saucepans lying on almost any flat surface in the cottage – however, soon the tabbys brought their families and friends and soon there were over thirty living in the Italian's kitchen. Italy hugged them, petted their soft little heads, hugged them again, and then often ended up crying into their striped fur, thinking about how Ludwig probably doesn't love him anymore, and then crying even more when realizing that Ludwig probably hates the fact that he's such a crybaby.

During one of the crying-into-a-cat instances, the door to the hovel opened and two dark figures stood out against the bright sunlight outside.

"Eh, _pompinara_!" a familiar voice called out. "Have you gone completely mad to the rest?"

"Who's there?" Feliciano asked, sniffling into a cat, with a snotty nose.

"It's me, your one and only brother, _segaiolo_!"

Feliciano wiped his nose on the sleeve of his burlap shirt and sat upright on his bed. Only then did he actually recognize the two figures himself – indeed, it was his older brother Romano, dressed quite smartly in a snow-white shirt and tight, black trousers; and his – uhm – Spanish friend, Antonio, wearing a red shirt with rolled up sleeves and cougar-colored cargo pants.

"I got a telegram from the mayor of Florence, that you haven't left your house for a whole week. People were starting to get worried, since all the cats in the area seem to have moved to your house. It's quite suspicious to these superstitious northern idiots, I guess."

Spain butted in with a large grin on his face, "We thought we'd visit you. The telegram said Germany had left and I thought that what you probably really need is some human company!" The Spaniard explained to Feliciano and then approached Romano from behind, wrapping his arms around his neck, plopping his head with its messy, walnut-colored hair on the southern Italian's shoulders.

"Vee," Feliciano sighed with content, "really? That's so nice of you two! Sit down or something, I'm going to make some pasta." He sprang right up and dashed over to the small gas stove, striking a match and setting the water kettle on to boil, and busying himself with cutting some tomatoes and basil into a bowl.

Antonio pushed Romano lightly towards the northern Italian's bed which stood at a corner of the hovel directly opposite the kitchen. "You're such a good older brother," he said teasingly, grinning his dazzling, white grin at the southern Italian's sulky expression.

"Well, I love him, and stuff," pouted Romano, "and anyways, I'm much nicer to him that I would be to anyone else!"

"That's true," the Spaniard agreed and cocked his head to the side slightly, nodding a few times. His easy-going nature, ever-present, beautiful smile and indestructible optimism always brushed off on Romano slightly, who felt happier just being with him. Not that he'd really admit it to anybody, not even himself.

But the southern Italian wasn't ashamed to find Spain's hand and wriggle his fingers snugly so they rested in the tailor-made spaces which seemed so perfect for the Italian's hand. Antonio then rested his head on top of Romano's, who in turn surreptitiously threw his hand into the back of Antonio's trousers, squeezing his left butt cheek abruptly.

Italy approached them holding two bowls, one full of his trademark Bolognese sauce, and the other full of cooked pasta. He reclaimed a few plates from the cat kingdom and served three portions for himself and his guests. He then sighed repeatedly, after chewing each forkful of spaghetti and looking at the two men in front of him.

"What, _segaiolo_?" Romano finally burst out in question, after the Italian sighed again upon looking at the pair.

"No… nothing, brother." He sighed again, and after a short pause he said, "I love you both for coming here, and getting me back in touch with reality. It's just that, when I look at you two… I can't stop thinking about him."

"Pff," the older Italian rolled his eyes, "romantic bullshit."

"Hey, you'd miss me too, right?" Antonio demanded.

"Well, I guess."

"You _guess_?" Antonio raised an eyebrow playfully.

"Fine! Yeah, I'd miss you." Romano dropped his gaze. "So I guess I understand you, a little." He shot back at his brother.

"I just want to hear if he's okay. I worry about him all the time! What if those bad Brits are up to something and hurting him right now, like France did to me… I should be saving him, right?" Feliciano looked up from his pasta with worry in his eyes.

"He's fine," Spain reassured him, waving his hand. "I've never known anyone stronger or more heroic than Ludwig. I bet'cha he's kicking all the English asses right now!"

Feliciano brightened up a bit and finished his pasta. He then collected the plates and threw them into the sink, and sat back with the pair of lovers. They spent the rest of the day talking, laughing, exchanging stories about current life in Spain (where Romano was living at the time) or stories about how the war was going, about the growing tension between Ivan and Alfred, and unresolved conflicts between Honda Kiku and Yao Wang. Feliciano even gathered up some courage and told the two friends about the entire incident with France, the torture and then their near-death experiences. After a lot of sighing and considering, he even lifted up his burlap shirt slightly so the visitors could see his deep scars which still shone crimson, the ugly word imprinted into the Italian's body permanently. Antonio studied the scars carefully, checking their depth and color from up close, tracing his fingers against it, while the southern Italian sat with his arms cross, rolling his eyes and pouting jealously. As the sun began descending and the Italian air grew a little cooler, Romano and Spain begun getting ready to leave on their journey back home.

"It was nice seeing you, _pompinara_," the older brother said by the doorway, and Spain nodded his head in agreement. Romano waved at his brother from afar and Antonio embraced Feliciano in a friendly fashion, still getting the older Italian slightly jealous.

As the two walked outside the cottage, holding hands boldly, disregarding the crooked looks from most passers by who were also strolling down the cobblestone street, they were both marveling at the beauty of Florence during sunset. Romano turned towards Antonio as they approached their two-man motorbike parked by a cast-iron streetlamp. The walnut-haired man sat down in the leather drivers seat, putting on his iron motorbiker helmet and goggles, and the southern Italian bent down to place a soft smooch on the Spaniard's luscious lips. Then, using his hands, he brushed away the messy hair which covered his right ear and he nibbled on Antonio's earlobe and whispered, with a purr in his voice, "I want to ride you all night long."

Spain laughed a good-hearted chuckle and said, "I thought we were taking the motorbike?"

Romano sighed profoundly, buried his forehead in the palm of his face and plopped down in the passengers seat, astounded by the sheer extent to which Antonio was capable of being sexually oblivious.


	7. a new hope

The journey to Stuttgart was long and perilous, as Ludwig had to hike up and down the rocky slopes of the Austrian alps and then head through the dense woodland of south-west Germany. His sweaty hair stuck out into all directions like a miniature haystack, instead of its usual slick, combed-back look; and his eyes had a dazzled, crazed expression about them, caused by his exhaustion, sleep deprivation and even mild dehydration. The constant variations of altitude and weather conditions, as well as having to keep his hand on his holster at all times were driving even the German's inhuman physique and willpower to their limits.

When he entered Germany and kept going north, not infrequently did the German, walking at his brisk pace, suddenly hear voices and have to stop. There were more British, American, and even some French remnant forces in these forests than the German would've liked. A few kilometers from Stuttgart he even had to single-handedly defeat a five-man British patrol he almost literally bumped into.

After over a week's journey, he approached a ravine and clearing that clearly matched a ravine and clearing printed on his rather large map of Southwest Germany. He was close to the Stuttgart city limits. Once the sun fell, he crept through the smoldering ruins of the bombed city, avoiding the swarms of foreign troops sitting around make-shift fires and waiting to receive rations from their soup kitchens. The German wove his way through surreptitiously, sticking to the shadows like a nightwraith. His ears being his guides, he approached the fighting zone where bullets were flying like drops during a rainstorm, and artillery shells were falling constantly onto the west side of the river, despite it being nighttime. After a lot of stealthy searching Ludwig finally encountered a few Austrian soldiers who saluted him smartly and pointed the German to their leader, Roderich.

Roderich and the rest of the Austrian and German troops in the area were manning defensive positions on the west bank of the river Neckar. Germany had to swim through the mucky river because all the bridges were either blown up or mined. As he emerged, soaked to the bone in the cold liquid from the slow-flowing river, Ludwig shook his head to dry it and then combed his hair back with his large hands. He inspected the fortifications that the Germans were manning, and shook his head at the sloppy trenches, shooting stations in teetering and tottering, crumbling homes, and bunkers built out of heaps of rubble. Ludwig's expression turned very grim and his eyebrows formed a v-shape when he looked at the frightened, hungry and grimy soldiers who were all running low on ammunition and morale. Most brightened up at the sight of their beloved war hero and commander-in-chief, many believing that the man had superpowers and would practically win the war himself. In a make-shift, underground bunker made out in some dim apartment building's basement, Germany and Austria finally had the time to sit down on a set of two wooden crates and a dining table, and discuss things, their faces and surroundings illuminated by a single, faltering lightbulb. A German soldier entered quickly, smiled at his commander, and handed him a dry uniform before leaving. Ludwig shamelessly unbuttoned his sticky, soaked and sweaty uniform coat and slipped on the brand-new, ironed military shirt with all his ornate medals in place.

"Long time no see," Roderich began, while looking at his Germanic friend from underneath his glasses, taking a swig of water from a small flask, but Germany cut him off abruptly.

"No time for this, Rodi," said Ludwig, while buttoning the shirt up, "Tell me, how's the situation, and keep it brief. I should be up on the surface, helping the soldiers out."

The Austrian gazed blankly at the concrete wall in front of him which crept with shadows while the German slipped out of his wet trousers, blushing a little, and quickly hopped into the dry, new pair and buckled up his belt. "Well, Ludwig, it's not going too well. Our soldiers are tired, we're running low on ammo, and worst of all, America's forces are on the move, supporting Arthur and his army of rum-swigging idiots. Worst of all, I can hardly even concentrate on the war anymore because of - "

The iron door which separated the basement bunker from the staircase and upper floors burst open and in hopped a small, handcuffed man in tattered clothes, his arms and legs chained and his eyes red from crying, thick tears swimming down his cheeks.

"Let me gooo," he wailed, sniffling and clumsily tucking a stray strand of blonde hair behind his ear, "I'm like, totally sick of being in this stinky cellar!"

Austria buried his face in the palms of his hands and rubbed his temples slowly. "Because of him," he finished, and kept massaging his forehead.

"You're here too, Mr. Muscle?" asked the Pole, grimacing at Ludwig in a rather unmenacing way, "I thought you were with your, like, totally ugly Italian boyfriend. That guy has, like, no sense of style. Well, neither do you, Black-Boots, but - "

"I see," Ludwig said to Austria, "I'm not surprised you look half-crazy, Roderich. But I have an idea of what to do, to give us time and space to fight this war."

The Austrian opened his eyes and glanced hopefully at the German. "I'm sending you off with him, Roderich."

"What?" the Austrian and the Pole said in unison.

"Well," Ludwig began, his hand supporting his broad chin, "you, Roderich, would take a breather from the war and you'd be my messenger. I want to let Italy know that I'm fine."

"And, like, where do I come in?" Poland demanded, one of his eyebrows raised.

"You, you little _verdammtes Teufel_, will be babysat by Feliciano. I can feel it in my bones that what he needs right now is a duty to attend to, and some human company. I'm sure he wouldn't mind having a little _dummes Huhn_ like you chained to his wall, complaining all day and all night."

The Pole scratched his nose with the iron chain links which bound his arms together and after a while, said, "Well, anything is, like, better than this shitty cellar."

"I can't leave Stuttgart, Ludwig," said Austria, "I just can't leave you to fight this on your own."

"I'll be fine," the German assured him, the corners of his mouth twitching into what looked like a very unconvincing smile of reassurance. "I'm really worrying about Italy and I just want him to hear news from me. I'll write up a letter and you'll deliver it to him, Roderich. And, just think about it – you'll finally get this bloodsucking mosquito off your back," he said, pointing to the Pole.

"Hmmmm," the Austrian considered the proposal for a minute, and then promptly agreed, slamming his hand against the table. "Yes, I'll do it. We'll get rid of Feliks, and you'll get your letter delivered. But once I'm done, I'll return to Stuttgart as fast as possible, I swear," the Austrian promised.

"Very well," Ludwig said. "Start packing for your journey, you should set out tonight, a few hours before dawn."

"I'll take one of our motorbikes and drive down through Germany and Austria, so I can get there in as little time as possible. And you – " he pointed a finger at the pouting, teary-eyed Pole, "if you say a word during the journey, I'll have you gagged up and you won't be able to talk or eat for the entire trip. Am I making myself clear?"  
"Whatever," Feliks rolled his eyes, and the chains on his handcuffs rattled as he shrugged his shoulders.

"_Gut_," Ludwig said, and he and Roderich left the bunker, locking the obnoxious Pole inside.

.

* * *

.

Later that night, after the Austrian had been strapped into the leather seat of the BMW R75 motorcycle, and Feliks was chained securely to the small sidecar, Ludwig was, at last, alone with the soldiers. The pale, shell-shocked, blue-eyed faces looked up at him as if he were a demigod at the least. The _Oberleutnant_, who had been commanding the German troops, approached him and showed him a carefully-sketched map of present Stuttgart.

"Here, _Herr Deutschland_, are their artillery stations, here are their main infantry nests. From here they bombard us at night, and from here at day," he said, pointing to different red-marked "X" shapes which the map was full of. "_Herr Deutschland_, the troops are few, and weak. We are horribly outnumbered. There are four of them to each one of our soldiers!"

Ludwig stared at the map silently for a few minutes, frowning slightly as he often did when concentrating. Most of the able-bodied soldiers had gradually amassed around him and the _Oberleutnant_, anxiously awaiting the words which would spill from the German's mouth.

At a speedy – but far from confusing – pace, Ludwig spoke loudly, "We will have two Panzerfaust teams on the roofs of this and this building," he said, pointing to the map as everyone around him followed the movements of his gloved fingers, "and they will strike at the two largest cannons. We will have three strike teams of divers swim up to their frontline shooting stations and bunkers and disable them with all the _Stielhandgranate-43_ we can amass. Meanwhile, on this side of the river we shall form four sniping stations, with the best marksmen armed with _Gewehr 98 _rifles with scopes. They will provide cover fire for the stormtroopers. The remaining infantry will set up a diversion, for there is something hidden a few streets away which you might not be aware of. A friend of mine, a deceased military enthusiast who lived on Postwiesserstrasse has a World War I era A7V tank in his basement, with modernized machine guns and a mounted cannon which he built himself. The infantry troop must find the house, retrieve the tank, man it and drive it across the Necker to lead an attack. It is amphibious and thus no bridge shall be necessary. I hope this answers all your questions, soldiers. We strike united, Germans and Austrians under the flag of our beautiful Germanic country. At 4:13 AM sharp, with the first rays of sunrise, our cannonade begins. In a few hours,_ meine Männer_, we make our last stand."

The men around him cheered, saluted and scattered to form brigades and arm themselves with the remaining arsenal. The _Oberleutnant_ nodded at Ludwig, something telling him that maybe, just maybe, the plan could work, and they could drive the British and Americans out of Stuttgart. It was risky, dangerous, but at the same time so ingeniously planned by none other than Germany himself.

Most men wanted to catch at least an hour's worth of sleep before their attack, and thus the entire line of defenses went silent, the distant rattle of machine gun fire and the rumble of cannons not disturbing the sleep of the seasoned veterans. Ludwig closed his eyes, but did not find peace – instead, his usually-rational mind could think of nothing but Feliciano – and the German's heart beat twice as fast, suddenly reminded that it still has one reason to keep beating indefinitely. And it was the best reason there could ever be.

_Love._

_._

_._

* * *

__**Hello, readers!**** Firstly, I want to thank everyone who's been reading and reviewing :D it means the universe to me. Secondly, **sorry for the long wait.. Just finished all my finals and I'm getting back to writing. Not sure how long this story is actually going to be, but mini-spoiler you can be expecting some US/UK action in the upcoming chapters. Cheers! :D


	8. victory is only onesided

**A/N: Hey everyone! Sorry for the long wait, but I was battling my ADHD because I'm literally reading five books and writing like three fanfictions at the same time. AND trying to learn how to play guitar. Gah. Anyways, enjoy! US/UK slash inbound :D**

* * *

The motorcycle rumbled along the moonlight-illuminated dirt path, a thick coniferous forest stretching on either side of the speeding and sputtering vehicle.

"Hey, Austria!" the short, blond man turned his goggled head sideways and called over the roar of the motorbike's engine.

Roderich, bent forward slightly to be more aerodynamic, yelled back, "We're almost there, but I can still gag you up if you start talking!"

"But, like, I just wanted to say - " the Pole yelled, "Thank you!"

The Austrian took his eyes off the road briefly and turned his head to face the man beside him, "What!"

"Like, during the partitions. Since 1795. Prussia and Russia totally gave me hell in the East and the West… but you, like, let southern Poland thrive. You didn't burn libraries, or like, demolish our castles. And I just wanted to, like, say 'thanks', bromosapiens!"

Roderich turned his head, facing the road again. Utterly baffled, he said, barely audibly, "No problem…" and from that point his perception of the seemingly whiny, weak blonde changed completely.

.

* * *

.

The Italian's facial expression changed gradually from a shocked "O" to the complete reciprocal of a grin as the frontline situation was slowly uncovered to him. The tattered and battered Austrians and Germans, perhaps no more than a platoon strong, were fighting against two companies of British and American soldiers – almost 160 fresh, healthy and well-equipped soldiers with full rationpacks and ammo clips. And leading those Germanic-lunatics-who-just-won't-give-up was none other than the love of the Italian's life; his muse, his savior and the man who completed him.

He jumped up from his seat, knocking over a bottle of wine and he grabbed the Austrian's uniform, and commenced shaking him violently back and forth, "I need to go there! Now!"

"F-Feliciano, calm down," gulped the Austrian, his glasses falling down his nose as he was tossed around harshly. He paused for a moment until the panting Italian let go of the folds of his coat, and said, "Ludwig specified you should stay here, in Italy, safely. Also, you need to watch over Feliks."

The Pole rolled his eyes and muttered, "I think I preferred the cellar over this," as he inspected the messy hovel which smelled of cats rather strongly.

"But I have to see Ludwig!" the Italian was yelling desperately, throwing his fists in the air and gesticulating wildly.

Austria turned away from Feliciano, pushed his glasses up and massaged his temples lightly. He then whispered to Feliks, who was standing close by, "You need to watch over him more than he does over you. Make sure he eats, and make sure he doesn't leave Italy. Please. Please, Feliks." Roderich pleaded, a rather pitiful, apologetic expression on his face. He turned back around and put his strong hands on the Italian's shoulders, and after a long sigh, said, "Please just stay, Feliciano. Do it… do it for Ludwig, for fuck's sake. It's all he cared for, you know? He just wants you to be safe, _dummkopf_. It's the only thing he wants more than to be with you. So just… stay. Please."

Feliks' eye-roll was almost audible, but Feliciano appeared quite convinced. With a load of sighs and sad Veee~'s he sat down, and was left alone with the Pole as Roderich turned on his heel and left out the door, muttering a quick goodbye and saying that he needs to get back to the battlefield as soon as possible. Feliciano still had his head buried in his hands when the Austrian's motorcycle vrooomed to life outside, and then the engine sounds grew fainter as he sped back off to the frontline.

Feliks moved towards a chair and sat opposite of the Italian, his chains rattling noisily as he slumped into a seat with an aggravated expression. Feliciano kept whimpering and sobbing, the noises getting increasingly louder, until the Pole slammed his bound hands on the dirty, Bolognese-stained, once-brown table and screamed, "Put yourself back together, _ty mały skurwysynie_! This might be, like, a bit hypocritical, but stop being such a whiny little faggot! You have to fight, _kurwa_! Sobbing like a bitch totally won't help with anything!"

Feliciano looked up at the blonde in front of him with red, puffy eyes and wiped his nose on his sleeve. He looked at the green eyes intently and, mystically, some of the Pole's rebellious nature and defiant attitude seemed to seep from the two emerald pools into the Italian's deep, umber eyes. Feliciano's eyebrows moved together and he straightened his back.

After another long pause he said, quietly, "You're right."

"Um, I know?"

"I'm going," Feliciano said, standing up, banging his knee on the table again, knocking over another bottle of wine. "Now."

Feliks nodded, thinking, "Maybe this poorly-dressed faggot isn't, like, as lame as I thought? Given the right circumstances, he might even be, like, brave!"

"You don't know about this, Poland, but a good few weeks ago, me and Ludi were in a pinch. I got captured by France – "

"I know," Feliks butted in, "one of the German guards told me, back in Stuttgart."

"He didn't hesitate for a second to come and save me, Feliks. He could've easily died that night… and yet he went straight for me. I've _ought_ to do the same, right? My grandfather was brave… I wish I were more like him!"

"You _are_ him, partially," Feliks explained, "he lives in you. Sorta. And you're right, you owe Ludwig your life, so you better go and save his now."

"Yes!" the Italian exclaimed. "I'm leaving," he said, and stormed out the door, forgetting to put on his shoes or coat or pants.

"Wait up!" Feliks called after him and hopped out the door as well, his arms and legs still bound together by the heavy chains. "I'm coming too!"

"Why? I think I just kind of set you free," inquired the Italian as he walked through the empty street in Florence and entered the small shed next to his hovel. He disappeared inside for a few seconds and came back out pushing a beautiful, blue-finish Ferrari motorcycle. Feliks gawked his eyes at the incredible bike and sat down on it even before Feliciano did.

"I'm going with you because I hope somewhere, along the way, I'll get to kick Russia's ass. In any circumstances, as long as I see his gargantuan-nosed face bleeding."

The Italian nodded and revved the ignition and the two roared off into the darkness, disturbing the inhabitants of Florence by the load noise of an engine for the second time that night.

.

* * *

.

The sun was at its midday peak and despite days getting shorter and chiller, the interior of the dark green tent was ridiculously hot and stuffy. Arthur stood by a round table, waving a folded map of Germany at his face, trying to ventilate himself at least slightly.

"Bloody hell," he cussed, wiping his sweat-beaded forehead with a sticky sleeve, "does _everything_ have to go fucking wrong today?"

"He was meant to be here an hour ago," grunted Alfred, making a half-hearted attempt to look at his wristwatch, but deciding it was way too much effort. He remained seated in the foldable, military chair, a few feet away Arthur. "You know, you wouldn't get that sweaty if your eyebrows didn't take up half of your face, you fugly British douchebag."

"Piss off, you fucking redneck! I'd kick your bloody face in, but I can't be arsed to shift."

Alfred's voice had a hint of annoyance in it at being called a redneck. "I'm sure you would, you little bitch!"

"Oh, you wanna go, wanker?" Arthur stood up and raised his fist, walking towards the seated American who immediately sprung up and swung his arm behind him, ready to punch.

"Yeah, let's go, you big pussy!" Alfred yelled, panting heavily, approaching the Brit haughtily until their sweaty foreheads were almost touching. He could see Arthur's big biceps flexing, getting ready to uncoil like a striking viper but –

"Bad moment, comrades?" a familiar, slightly nasal, warm voice rang out from near the entrance to the tent.

"Ivan!" they both exclaimed at the same time, standing up at attention.

"We were just… messing around a little!" Arthur explained, lowering his fist and clapping Alfred on the back rather strongly.

"_Da,_ I don't doubt that," Ivan said, and took off his bowler hat and fake moustache, "I wish I hadn't had to put on that ridiculous disguise to get through Switzerland undetected. Agh. Anyways, why was I called all the way here?"

"Well," Alfred began, biting his lower lip tentatively, "we have good news and bad news."  
"Hit me with your best shot, _drugu_."

"Well, the good news is we know how to win the whole bloody war," Arthur exclaimed rather enthusiastically, making the V-symbol with his hand, and then immediately regretting the effort, feeling really tired.

"_Otlichnyi__̆__e_," the Russian nodded in approval, "but what is the bad news?"

"Well…. they drove us out of Stuttgart this morning." Alfred admitted and hung his head in shame.

"But – "

"We know," they said simultaneously, avoiding the Russian's disappointed frown.

"It's just, y'see, they took us by surprise!"

"We didn't even, like, know they have ammo anymore – "

"And where they got that bloody tank from, I cannot fathom – "

"And their crazy-ass leader took out a whole troop himself, I think – "

"I see," Ivan said, his violet eyes cool and totally unamused, and he reached into his chest pocket.

"NO!" The American and Brit both yelled, thinking the Russian was pulling out a gun, but he just looked at them, confused, and retrieved out a pack of '_Krasne_' cigarettes. He lit one, inhaled, and then exhaled all the smoke in a long sigh. "Alright. Well, let's hear your brilliant plan to end the war instead, if you can't even win against a handful of Germans having a garrison of soldiers at your command," Ivan said, tapping the ashes off his cigarette onto the scribble-filled maps on the table.

"Well," Alfred began, "we realized that there's one common root in all the Axis victories. You know? France's death. The capture of Poland. Even today's morning victory here, in Stuttgart."

Ivan waited for further explanation, smoke escaping through his nostrils.

Arthur clarified, "It's Germany. If we want to win the war, we ought to kill Ludwig."

The Russian twirled his cigarette between his fingers, nodding to himself, apparently deep in thought. "Not bad. But any concrete plans made yet, eh?"

"Well, it's really pretty simple, Ivan. Look – all it takes is one sniper. One good shot at the head or the heart, one bullet through that Nazi dog's black, blood-pumping blob of muscles and – and victory is ours! The Austrian will be crushed, alone, and the Italian will just have a mental breakdown. Simple as that!"

Ivan extinguished his cigarette butt on the smooth surface of the table. He stood up, put on the bowler hat and attached the fake moustache onto the large space between his lips and wide nose, "O-K. I'll be back tomorrow to check on your… progress," he said, striding out of the tent, but not before looking back over his shoulder and barking, "Don't disappoint me."

The two made sure the Russian was far out of ear-shot and they both exhaled theatrically, Alfred laughing nervously to shake off some of the tension.

"I hate that guy," the American muttered.

Arthur laughed, but went serious a split-second later, "But now I'm going to chop your bloody bollocks off! Because of you, he almost shot us! You told him we got totally wiped out by the Germans – "

"But it's true, you dipshit! Are you blind? Maybe you can't see anything from underneath that forest above your fucking eyes!" Alfred retorted angrily, wiping sweat from his forehead, tossing his plastered fringe aside.

"Well, you didn't have to bloody tell him, you fuckin' genius! And leave my fucking eyebrows alone, you shithead!" Arthur snapped back, and approached the American, pushing him a little harder than he intended, making Alfred fall over onto the tent's grassy floor. He landed with a thud and tensed up immediately, springing back up and before Arthur could even react, he charged at him and threw him to the ground with a rough football dive.

The American was on top of the wriggling Englishman, and used the favorable position to punch Arthur square across the jaw. His head spun aside and his hit cheek turned blood red. The tension in the air was once again tangible, but this time instead of striking back, the Brit grabbed Alfred's pilot coat and pulled him down to his face, and before any objection could be made, his lips were upon the American's and he kissed him passionately.

Alfred F. Jones reluctantly pulled away for air, and when he did, he whispered, "You fucking sexy faggot,"

"Shut up," Arthur said, and squeezed Alfred's butt cheeks with his free hand. The American's hips bucked and he dove back onto the Brit's lips, parting his lips and feeling his electrifying saliva mix with his own, as their tongues collided in a maelstrom of passion. Jones attempted to unbutton the British uniform before him, but could barely do it being so distracted with the amazing kiss.

After some fumbling around, both of their uniforms were slipped off and tossed aside, their now-bare, muscular chests colliding with one another as the two bodies clashed together, sweaty in the afternoon haze. When the two pulled away to breathe again, the English lips were all upon Alfred's nipple without a second of hesitation, making the American moan a deep, guttural sound, as a feeling of immense pleasure swelled all over his body, making him have to compose himself as not to come right then and there.

Alfred pushed the Englishman roughly onto the ground and placed a few kisses on his strongly chiseled chest while his hands worked magic on his bulging, black trousers.

"Oh, fuck," Arthur gasped, his legs rising from the ground and wrapping themselves around his back, "keep going, you fucker,"

Alfred wrestled the dirty, brown boots from the man's legs and then tore the trousers off the Englishman's legs and tossed them away quickly, so he could marvel at the sight before him. He grabbed hold of his member instantly, and licked it teasingly, from the base of his shaft, all the way up to the head.

"I'm gonna suck the shit out of your British cock," Alfred said, his hot breath pouring down onto the erect organ before him, and licked his lips slowly. Arthur just moaned loudly, arching his back and thrusting into the hot air, his eyes rolling back with pleasure. Just then, Alfred's lips were upon his member, and soon the Englishman was thrusting against the inside of the American's chubby cheeks. The tempo of the act increased steadily, Arthur slowly losing all control and falling into a state of deep ecstasy, feeling like he was a huge icicle being melted by a powerful blowtorch. He was pulled out of the perfect world when suddenly the blowtorch was switched off. He opened his eyes and saw Alfred taking his pants off, his member popping out of the moist trousers.

The Englishman rose to his knees and the two were now engaging in full body contact, their wet, hard members gliding against one another, and soon the American's large, coarse hand grabbed both of them and began stroking them up and down, the friction creating mind-blowing sensations for both of the men. The Brit bent down slightly and outstretched his tongue, caressing Alfred's nipple with the hot, moist organ, making him swing his head back in pleasure and gasp loudly. The American quickened the pace at which he was working on the two members and, with his left hand, he squeezed and rubbed Arthur's ass. It was all too much for the Brit who creased his forehead and let out a loud, primal grunt as the fiery heat engulfed his loins and he exploded in the American's hand.

Arthur was still panting when Alfred flipped his sweaty body over and began probing his backside with his fingers. "Just fuck me, would you?" the bottom moaned, half-spent, on all fours. The American did not need any more encouragement and, upon positioning himself behind the Englishman, and moistening his own cock, he thrust his throbbing member into the Brit's hole, making him cry out loud. His fists clenched the grass before him as he felt himself being filled up by Alfred. After a few quick thrusts, though, the cries turned into deep moans and the Englishman soon found his knees grating against the rough terrain below him and the two rocked in the rapid rhythm Alfred was setting. Arthur felt all the nerves in his prostate stimulated in a storm of strong eruptions as the American came inside him in a glorious, ecstatic finish.

Jones rolled down from atop the British bloke and lay panting on the grass, looking at the tent's sage-green canopy above him. After a few moments, Arthur pounced onto him, fired by energy which he had just inexplicably somehow found, and with two strong, muscular arms he pinned the American down to the ground by his shoulders.

"3, 2, 1," he counted down, "I win."

"I hate you,"

"Love you too, darlin'."


End file.
